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2011-09-17 - Beauties and Mysteries
The ballroom of the Hellfire Club is the most visibly active room on most nights, full of the rich and powerful and those there to entertain them. Indeed, there are those who work at the club for the sole purpose of mingling with the guests to act as beautiful companions - of either gender - dressed enticingly, carrying drinks, carrying on conversations, offering distraction, dancing, and other entertainments. This is not where the exotic dancing takes place - not usually - but those who work as the exotic dancers are indeed chie amongst those who also work here as companions, and they are often the most sought-after by the club members. One amongst these is the caramel-skinned mixed-race beauty known simply as 'Priss'. Her hip-length cascade of impossibly full coal-black hair and deep blue eyes are startling enough along with her full, athleticly toned curves, dancer's grace and exotic blend of beautiful features make it easy to understand the attraction, and she certainly knows how to showcase that. Tonight that attire is a rich purple confection that seems to bare more flesh than it conceals, while remaining - arguably - decent. The thin strap of the halter goes about the neck and supports the apex of each side of the dress, with a plunging neckline that reaches past the navel, yet is joined intermittently with tiny bands of purple fabric connecting to centrally-placed tiny gold rings of metal that gleam in the light of the room. Another tiny band departs each side of the dress just were a brassierre strap might, joining in the back around another such golden ring. The front panels of the dress thin around the waist and bare the hips, before flaring out to form what seems more a suggestion of a skirt, larger gold rings at the hips to bare more skin. Impossibly high matching gold and purple stilletos complete the ensemble, such as it is. Tony Stark is...keeping up appearances. That's the only reason he's admiring the Priscilla Kitaen view. Jean would understand, given how quiet their relationship is. How behind-the-scenes. If she whaps him telepathically for it later...it's not entirely his fault. He just escaped from a meeting with a potential subcontractor who insisted on meeting here. On Tony's tab. Of course, it *is* possibly the most exclusive club in New York. And possibly the most sleazy. Those two things undoubtedly...go together. The luscious purple-clad - if one can call it clad - brunette slinks gracefully through the crowd, giving the handsome Stark a smoky smile as she approaches. She gives no sign at all that she caught that inner thought about girlfriend trouble. It's none of her business, after all. But if he wants to keep up appearances, the least she can do is play her part. She gets paid to do so, after all. "Good evening, sir. Having a good time, I hope?" It's a standard opening line for the 'entertainment' around here, as it offers a clear opening for patrons to mention that there's something that could be done to improve their experience that evening. "A very good one, although somehow, my glass seems to have ended up empty." He glances at it. "Do you have any recommendations?" Admiring the view, yes. But yeah, there's definitely a girlfriend in the picture. Which is odd...Tony hasn't been seen with one specific companion in, oh, easily months. "I can help with that, sir. Happy to do so." the lovely woman offers, extending a hand gracefully to relieve Tony of his glass without twirling away just yet. "As for recommendations, I might suggest a nice brandy. You seem to be in a relaxed mood, and we have some excellent sipping brandies on stock." Oddly enough, though the woman cannot help being provocative - especially dressed like that - she's not draping herself over Tony the way some of the dancers might. She seems to be gently respecting his space. "Brandy would be perfect, Miss..." She may not be supposed to give her name when she's so clearly on duty. "I'll trust your judgment as to make." She really is lovely...and he'd have to be dead *not* to appreciate her. "My dancing name is Voodoo, sir." The lovely woman offers with a dazzling smile. "I'll be right back with that drink." And she is. It doesn't take her long to return with a crystal snifter with a good few fingers of rich, dark brandy, which she commends to Tony's hand, brushing her long fingernails along his hand as she does so. "Would you like any company, sir?" she asks, without presuming. Most of the girls would ply him bodily while inquiring, making clear suggestions of what they could offer. This woman, this Voodoo, merely smiles. But maybe for her that's all it takes? It's her job, to offer. And it would be completely out of character for Stark to refuse...so why the hesitation before he shifts position to allow space for her. "Please. Join me...Voodoo." An interesting professional name. "Thank you, sir. I'm happy to join you." And she does seem happy, smiling as she slides into space beside Tony, even lightly laying a hand along his elbow. Yet still she isn't nearly the body blanket most of the girls here would be, all up in his personal space. She also isn't a constant chatterbox, instead seemingly content to stay close and watch the crowd and Tony in equal measure. It's almost impossible she doesn't know who he is, and yet she hasn't called him by name and has given no indications she knows who he is, beyond knowing he is a member here. She doesn't try to draw him into dancing - sipping from a brandy snifter does not mix well with dancing, even in the most sedate of ballroom styles. She is just there. "You're an interesting woman." She's a high class courtesan, but she isn't *acting* like one. Almost as if she knows he's just acting like the normal Tony for appearances...but how could she, unless she's a telepath. Which Tony *really* hopes she isn't... Or maybe she's just a very, very good reader of people? She wouldn't have to be a telepath to be able to pick up subtle cues in body language, gesture and glance and act accordingly. And it would make her an even /better/ high class courtesan, if she could do that, fitting herself and her behavior to the ideals and interests of not just the customer but the moment. "Why, thank you, sir. Kind of you to say, as little as you might know of me. Is there anything else I might do to help improve your evening? A conversation topic?" Tony Stark hrms, considering that as he sips at his brandy. She's worth what they pay her, no doubt...and not just for her body. "You seem rather more intelligent than most women who would work at a club." Voodoo smiles windsomely, a playful sparkle in those deep blue eyes. "Well, that is rather nice of you to say, sir." Especially given they have really barely had any conversation at all. How could he make an estimate of her intelligence? Or is it a guess based on silence? Maybe she simply understands the truth of the old adage: better to be silent and perhaps thought a fool, than to open one's mouth and prove it so. "Admittedly, our minds are not the first attributes for which we are selected. But they are considered, I assure you." She hasn't met a /stupid/ dancer here, and one can be sure Priss has met dumb dancers. Definitely. "I think it probably needs more brains than people think to do some of those routines." She said she was a dancer. "And certainly more physical fitness." Not stupid, either. He glances towards the bar, then rather abruptly rolls his eyes. "Thank you for saying so." Voodoo offers with a smile. She seems to be enjoying this conversation, and yet she is clearly not fishing for compliments or demanding attention. She's just doing exactly what he asked: keeping him company. She glances towards the bar when she notices the rolling of his eyes, and spots the male patron who is 'all over' one of the other dancers, pawing at her a bit. Subtlety, thy name is not his, for sure. "Not everyone is stuble or discreet, and it does take all kinds, here." she comments, smoothly. Tony Stark snorts. "He thinks by doing this we'll forget about the rent boy," Tony notes, amused. "Carrying his luggage, my foot." (Talking of luggage, yes, the Briefcase *is* below the table. No he didn't check it.) "Unfortunate thing, when someone cannot be comfortable in their own skin, and strive to hide themselves with lies." Voodoo offers. Truth is, she was never this well spoken, before the team. Her friends were also her teachers, and they drilled class into her along with everything else. It enables her to blend in well in almost any environment. She can be 'street' when she needs to be, but she can also be this: smooth, capable, classy and discrete. And she's still some kind of sex-bomb. Tony shrugs. "Most people are afraid of something. Some people are afraid of something within themselves." He wonders what this 'Voodoo' is afraid of...nothing she'd show the world, he's sure. What is Priss afraid of? Her inner Daemonite is one answer. Failure is another. Being utterly alone, yet another. Being useless and worthless, just a hollow pretty shell is still another. The list is legion. But she shows none of it to anyone, least of all the dashingly handsome Mister Stark. "Being afraid is one thing. Being controlled by that fear is yet another." Tony Stark nudges his foot against the briefcase under the table for a moment. "Starts with admitting you're afraid," he acknowledges. "Which is very hard sometimes. Especially for us guys." "Is it, really?" Voodoo inquires, as if it is news to her, something she has never heard in her life. Which is obviously not true. "Well then, bully for you, sir, that you have moved beyond that inner barrier." She's not really teasing him, but she makes it almost sound as if she is. It's playful, really. Like the rest of her banter. Inwardly, she's thinking that the boorish man in the closet must tip very, very well if her colleague is going to accept that kind of manhandling without protest. Apparently not well enough...because oops, there goes a drink, and the man flees to the bathroom. Where he might or might not demonstrate a wide stance. Tony is trying not to laugh...and thus not responding to Voodoo. If he opens his mouth... Voodoo catches this and says nothing, beyond eloquently raised eyebrows and an added impish twinkle in her eyes. "Alright. Points for dealing with him without making too great a scene, at least." she comments. If she has noticed Tony not responding to her, she hasn't taken offense. Tony, who has had more than one drink thrown on him, shrugs a little. "I suppose. I wonder if he'll actually come back out. Does this place have a back door?" "Several, in fact." Back. Sides. Underground. Voodoo doesn't know all of them, but she knows enough, and could find more if she wanted. "As for whether he will come back out, I imagine he will. He fears what others think of him. He will need to come back out, so that everyone can see him leave like a man's man, with two women on his arms, worshipping his every step." Tony Stark grins a bit. "Only two...oh yeah, he only has two arms." And Tony can be just like him. If he drinks enough. And Jean doesn't catch him at it. Voodoo chuckles wryly at something. At what? That's not exactly clear, as the timing of her amusement doesn't quite jive with his comment aloud. "And how is your brandy, sir?" "Excellent." He's savoring it, mind, not swigging it. This is expensive brandy. Far too good to drink quickly. A while later, then, as Tony is finished his brandy and is getting ready himself to gather up and make a departure, Voodoo slips a tad close to him, pitching her voice carefully as she gives his forearm a gentle squeeze. "It was a pleasure to meet you tonight, sir. I hope to see you around again soon." And then, "And might I say, sir, she is a very lucky lady. Perhaps eventually you will bring her by to enjoy this place, and I can meet her. Until then, good evening." And with that and without any explanations, the lovely purple-clad brunette swishes away through the crowd. Voodoo indeed, that black magic woman is dangerous. Category:Logs